


I've Got You

by SunflowerSupreme



Series: Whumptober 2020 [5]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Hurt, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Post-The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt, The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt, The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt (Bad Ending), Trauma, Whumptober 2020, me to me: what if i took the bad ending and made it worse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 06:53:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26847730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunflowerSupreme/pseuds/SunflowerSupreme
Summary: After Ciri’s death, Geralt felt as though he had nothing to lose, and went to fight the Crones of Crookback Bog, even knowing it meant certain death.Whumptober Day 7: I’ve Got You
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Whumptober 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1958032
Comments: 5
Kudos: 36
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	I've Got You

**Author's Note:**

> Whumptober Prompt:  
> No 7. I’VE GOT YOU  
> Support | Carrying | Enemy to Caretaker
> 
> Context:  
> This takes place after the “bad ending” of Witcher 3. If you’re unfamiliar, you can [watch it here](https://www.ign.com/videos/2015/05/29/the-witcher-3-wild-hunt-epilogue-03-something-ends-something-begins-iii-bad-ending). Basically Ciri dies, Geralt goes to the swamps of Velen to recover her medallion (which originally belonged to Vesemir) and then he’s ambushed by dozens of monsters. The game leaves his fate to be pretty uncertain, but it’s generally accepted that he died.

The swamp was littered with the bodies of monsters. The stench of rot hung in the air, turning his stomach. Dandelion swallowed back bile and nerves, well aware that he might be walking into an ambush. He’d found Roach’s body a short while away, the horse having been ripped apart by scavengers. That didn’t bode well for the Witcher’s fate.

“Geralt?” he called.

There was no answer, neither from the Witcher nor the monsters.

The bard clutched the strap of his lute and swung from his horse, creeping toward the abandoned hut in the center of the swamp.

Yennefer had told him that Geralt intended to reclaim Ciri’s medallion, but she had apparently considered it a suicide attempt, practically begging Dandelion not to follow him. _“You won’t find him alive, Dandelion,”_ she’d said, shaking her head. _“He wouldn’t want you to die for him.”_

 _“Fuck you,”_ he’d told her and, ignoring her advice and the pleas of Priscilla, he’d headed off in search of the Witcher.

He was starting to realize how right she was.

His boots squelched into the mud, which seemed to be trying its best to keep Dandelion away from the hut. But he pressed on, determined to reach it, even as he became more certain that he would find nothing more than a rotting corpse of a Witcher to go with the monsters outside.

“Geralt?” he called again.

Finally reaching the door he took a deep breath, which he immediately regretted as he was assaulted with the smell of decay and death. Gagging, Dandelion shoved open the door and stumbled inside.

Geralt lay motionless on the floor in a pool of blood. A red trail led from the door, as though he’d crawled inside, to safety, only to collapse. Dandelion stumbled back outside and doubled over, retching up the meager lunch he’d had.

Then he ran back inside on shaky feet, falling to his knees beside the corpse. “Geralt!” He cupped the Witcher’s head, brushing his hair from his forehead. Tears clouded his vision.

“No, no,” he whispered, his hands trembling. “No…” Squeezing his eyes shut he pressed his forehead against Geralt’s, tears dripping down his cheeks.

Geralt’s skin was warm.

Dandelion froze as the realization washed over him, barely able to think straight. “It can’t be-”

He pressed his hand against Geralt’s neck, shocked to feel a weak pulse thrumming beneath his fingers.

The relief threw him back into action. He raced outside stumbling through the mud to his mount and dragging the gelding toward the house. Then, halfway there, he thought better of it and headed back into the swamp.

It wasn’t hard to locate Roach, her bloated corpse right where he’d last seen it. Thankfully, the scavengers hadn’t been interested in the saddle bags, and he cut them free as best he could with one hand over his nose. Then he dragged the bags back inside the hut before returning to his own horse for the supplies he’d brought.

As quickly as he could he sorted through their combined supplies - thankfully, he’d planned for the worst and brought medicine - finding bandages, alcohol, and suturing supplies.

He fetched water from the well outside, then stripped Geralt out of his bloodied clothes, exposing his wounds. If he’d been a human, they would have killed him, but, for better or for worse, the Witcher mutations had kept him alive.

“I’m here, Geralt,” he said quietly as Geralt moaned. “It’s me, Dandelion.” But the Witcher didn’t seem aware of anything but his pain. “I’ve got you.”

The first thing he did was use Geralt’s ruined clothes to wipe away as much of the blood as he could, then he threw the clothes outside so he wouldn’t have to smell them.

Dandelion had gotten to be pretty good at patching up wounds during his travels with Geralt, so it was habit that guided him to pour alcohol over the injuries, washing them out and (hopefully) preventing any infection. Although, given that the wounds were already a few days old, he wasn’t certain how effective that would be.

The last thing he did was his least favorite part of caring for injures. Threading a needle he carefully stitched Geralt’s wounds closed, wincing every time he pulled the needle through flesh.

But Geralt didn’t move, didn’t even flinch or groan. Somehow, that made it worse.

Outside, it was beginning to grow dark, but Dandelion barely noticed, only thinking to light a candle to better see by, as he finished sewing his friend’s wounds.

Once Geralt was as patched up as Dandelion could get him, he changed him into a set of clothes that he’d found in Roach’s saddle bags (thankfully, the leather bags had protected them from any liquids in the horse’s decaying corpse).

Then he dragged him across the room and laid him on the bed, tucking the blanket over him. 

The Witcher looked almost peaceful, his eyes closed and his breathing even. Dandelion managed to feed him a bit of Swallow Potion, also scavenged from the Witcher’s bags. He only risked feeding him a few drops, afraid that - on an empty stomach - anymore of the potion would overload Geralt’s damaged system.

With nothing else to do, Dandelion sat on the bed beside Geralt, strumming his lute as the hours passed by.

He lost track of time, as he played, until a howl ripped through the night, followed by the terrified scream of a horse. His horse.

Dandelion ran to the window in time to see something - gods, he hoped it was only a wolf - dragging his gelding away into the woods surrounding the swamp. Dandelion swallowed, fear clenching his stomach.

Then, whatever it was, stepped out of the woods. He was certain of only one thing: it wasn’t a wolf.

“Oh gods,” he moaned, slamming the window shut and looking around the room in terror. The hut was in ruins from the monster attack that had left Geralt incapacitated, and he doubted it could stand up to another assault.

With no other options Dandelion shoved a shelf in front of the window, then braced a table against the door. But it still didn’t feel safe, not when he could see outside through the gaps in the walls.

He looked back at Geralt, laying perfectly still on the bed and licked his lips nervously.

Something slammed against the other side of the wall and he screamed, racing toward the Witcher and grabbing him protectively, pulling Geralt’s limp body to his chest.

Between them, Geralt’s medallion was vibrating wildly, and it took all of his self control not to through the thing across the room.

“Geralt,” he whispered. “This would be a truly poetic time for you to wake up.” But the Witcher didn’t stir, only continuing to slumber on in silence.

Dandelion shivered uncomfortably and released Geralt, sitting still on the bed beside him. He absentmindedly stroked the Witcher’s hair, closing his eyes and trying not to think about the monsters outside.

“It’s going to be fine,” he said, mostly to himself. “It won’t get in.”

For a while, it seemed to work. The monster scratched at the walls of the hut, but seemed unable to locate a way in. Dandelion tracked it’s every move, watching nervously through the cracks in the damaged walls as it circled around them.

The shelf he’d put in front of the window shook as something slammed into it. Dandelion pulled the blankets over them both, as though it might offer some level of protection.

Another howl ripped through the night.

Then the door trembled.

Without thinking Dandelion jumped to his feet and ran toward it, slamming his body against the table and struggling to hold it shut. Whatever was on the other side wanted to get in, no doubt smelling the blood. Or perhaps it had already written Geralt off as a loss and wanted the much more alive Dandelion.

For a moment, he wondered if he went outside and let the monster take him if it would leave Geralt alone. But he knew that would only make Geralt hate himself all the more, so he kept pushing against the door with all his strength.

Unfortunately, he was a poet, not a strongman, and whatever was on the other side of the door had a good deal more power.

With one last great crash the door splintered and Dandelion fell back, landing on his ass amid the remains of the door and table. Wood fragments stabbed into his hands as he struggled to sit up, but that was the least of his worries.

He’d traveled with Geralt a long time.

He’d seen a lot of monsters.

He’d never seen a werewolf though, because Geralt considered them to be highly dangerous, enough so that he’d kept the bard far away from them.

As he stared at the creature that had come through the door Dandelion was certain of two things: that he was finally looking at a werewolf and that Geralt had been right to keep him away from the creatures.

A whimper escaped his lips and the creature turned to look at him, it’s eyes gleaming red in the darkness.

It roared and lunged. Dandelion rolled out of the reach of its claws at the last possible moment. The monster slammed head first into the wall, dazing it long enough for the poet to run to Geralt’s side, shaking the Witcher. “Geralt, wake up!” he shouted. “We need to run! Geralt!”

He knew what the Witcher would say, that Dandelion should run, save himself and leave him to die. But, even if everything hadn’t happened, even if Ciri hadn’t died and Yennefer hadn’t given up on Geralt, Dandelion was certain he couldn’t leave him.

The werewolf had gained its bearings, turning and coming toward them, its fangs bared, drool dripping from it’s lips. Dandelion desperately tried to pull Geralt to his feet, hoping to make a run for it, but Geralt remained limp.

The monster lunged for them.

**Author's Note:**

> Do they live? Do they die? Will I write a second chapter? 
> 
> Only Melitele knows.


End file.
